Connecting people

As a result of a free 1 month- trial I upgraded my LinkedIn- account. Can't see any massive improvements. Apart from the fact that now I see, who that "anonymous member" who viewed my profile 2 days ago was. It was the Le Frenchie. 

Not sure what to make of the whole LinkedIn. Even less so when it comes to being viewed by the Artist Formerly Known As The Love Of Your Life that you've later on decided to unfriend even on Facebook. Especially seeing how his career is going from strength to strength and I'm... well, unemployed with nothing but a string of unimpressive internships under my belt.

I'm familiar with the Facebook etiquette and know not to accept just any idiot as my friend, allowing them  access to all my photos and life events. Yet that doesn't stop the idiots from finding me. I have, again, been contacted by a bunch of men who aren't in any way connected to any people I know. They all have English names, yet their spelling of their God and Queen-given English is simply abhorrent. Really. A drunken, 3-year-old, blind Chinese kid could write better.

I honestly don't know which I find more offensive- the fact that they think I look desperate enough to friend just anyone or the fact that they, as the native speakers of that glorious language clearly still think punctuation is an urban legend.

I am not yet, however, as knowledgeable about the LinkedIn etiquette. Am I, in the name of career advancement, expected to accept all the connection requests? Such as the Saudi Arabian plumber and a Uzbekistani lawyer I just have? Or is this just a slightly more grown-up version of Facebook's cattle market, poorly disguised as "professional networking"?

'Tis the season to be...fuming

The Man has finally gotten off his arse and done something. He's invited me over to Spain for the holidays. Remember, we haven't seen each other since the (latest) break-up 4 months ago and especially not since he started talking about proposing to me. As I'm still hoping to land an interview and possibly even a job, I've not been able to confirm any dates yet. And there's also the unfortunate task of having to break the news to all those I won't be spending holidays with. Like my Dad.

I'm off to spend some (I'm not even going to bother with the word quality over here) time with him this weekend. Him and the Step Mum. Who, judging by the latest conversations, are going through one of their not-talking-to-each-other- phases. Which is a nice addition to the not-living-together-phase. I sure hope his wine cellar is fully stocked. If only I could afford the air fare, I'd outsource them both to India myself.

Then there's my sister. She's already in full swing, organizing a Christmas à la Famille (though conveniently sans les parents). All my siblings are getting together and it would be so much fun.

But in case I ever intend to extract that bloody proposal out of the verbally constipated git, I need to see him, right? 

So, I had a look at the flights. Mary, Joseph and fucking baby Jesus the prices have gone through the roof! And the thing is, it's the same thing every bloody year.

See, Holidays are very much like winter, snow, monsoons and your significant other's birthday. An annual occurrence that still never fails to take us by surprise. The older we get, the less prepared we are - every year. Even with the combined experience of 85 Christmases, we still don't know any better. Remember when I said that with him I've never been able to plan ahead? Well this is no exception.

By the time he realizes that hey, Christmas/ Hanukkah/ Kwanzaa/ Festivus is just around the corner the rest of the world's Christian/ Jewish/ Black/ Weird population have already made their arrangements and snapped up all the available flights.

I'm furious. If were really serious about getting his shit together and doing the honourable thing, surely he would have started making some plans? Sure, I'm still willing to fly over but it's going on his credit card. And let's not forget: the more money he's going to need to fork out for the flights... the less there is to spend it on the ring.

Movember

November. Not one of my favourite months of the year. That's when it really starts to get cold, dark and wet  and even the holiday season is still a whole month away. And then there's the Movember.

You know what I'm talking about. The month when even the sanest of men seem to lose it and start growing a moustache. It becomes a competition and the topic of endless bad Facebook profile pictures. These guys forget the fact that looking like a 70's porn star was only cool in the 70's. Provided you actually were a porn star.

The point behind all this is to raise awareness about testicular cancer. How, I've struggled to see. I mean, October is the breast cancer awareness month and women everywhere don't celebrate it by, say, walking around without anything covering their modesty (why do they call it that? We are referring to the female sex organ over here- surely that's the most immodest thing there is?). We don't stop shaving our armpits and start sporting bushes that even Michael Jackson would have found thoroughly uncool (I am, of course, talking about  the short period in time when Michael Jackson was not only alive, but black. And a man, too)!

                                    

Now that we are just a couple of days away from the end of this madness, I think I finally got it.

All that facial hair makes even the fittest men just profoundly unattractive. And women don't want to have sex with unattractive men. So, effectively the tasch acts as the most powerful profylactic known to man (Pope, hope you're listening - no more ranting about those silly condoms that all those silly scientists say prevent all those silly diseases). And when women aren't having sex with men, the men have to take care of themselves. Which means that they spent even more time getting intimate with their groins and as a result are more likely to notice any abnormalities in the region. Voilà!

All those years in school have finally paid off- I can do scientific analysis, me!

And men, remember: Gillette is only the second best thing you can get. You just wait what comes after...!

Faith no more

For some weeks now I've been trying to find some solace. So I have started to go back to the synagogue (not a move my pork-eating, football-loving friends particularly appreciate. And they aren't afraid to tell me).

Yes. Nothing wrong with your reading. Fridays have become a no booze-zone and Saturdays have been devoted to Shabbat services. One morning afterfwards I went with my friend to shop for organic vegan food. You know, because it's kosher. And I actually enjoyed it. No, still nothing wrong with your reading.

Not so many years ago I used to have my name on the list at all the most fabulous parties, my double D-cup overflowing with free booze. Now it's been replaced by having my name  at the door of a synagogue, where I study Bible in a language I still, much to the dismay of the scholarship officials at the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs (and myself), can't really even follow.

My friend treats the service as a window shopping for my next (and inevitably Jewish) boyfriend. And I have to say, from the balcony where we sit (it's an Orthodox synagogue so men and women are separated) we have a pretty good view. Though there, too, is a chronic shortage of eligible men over 17 and under 71.

But the biggest shock, my dear readers, is yet to come. I've noticed I thoroughly enjoy the sight of men attending the service with their kids. Yes. No booze, God-bothering, vegan food and kids. After a sermon a couple of weeks back about how holy and  important having children is I actually found myself wondering if there's a chance I might be willing to change my mind after all.

The ironic thing is that at least I have a choice. Which is so much more than can be said about so many people I know. I have friends who want kids more than anything; people I love and people who I know would make terrific parents. Yet, the cruel hand life's poker has dealt them means they, for a variety of physical reasons, can't have them.

Adding more people into this relationship doesn't, of course, fit too well with my plans for happily ever after with The Man (and anyway, there are already 3 people in this relationship: me, him and his mummy dearest...)

Now that the Happy End (or Final Solution- all in the eye of the beholder) is closer than ever, am I really going all out to sabotage it? Is this just jitters? Or... have I actually already moved on?

Computer says yes

I finally got the new laptop. I even managed to install some software.God, it feels good to be connected with the rest of the word again! Not that much worth reporting on has happened...

In this job hunt of mine I've reached a point where I find myself hoping that somewhere someone with a job either gets killed, gets seriously ill and subsequently finds her/himself on a lengthy sick-leave or accidentally falls pregnant just so that somewhere a job opens up. I'm not proud of these dark thoughts I harbour...

I suppose I could always apply for a job as a Chelsea FC manager. They've gone through 9 managers in as many years, so at some point inevitably even I will be considered qualified for the job. 

Then again, I've learnt yet another valuable lesson. I had that job interview today and noticed that when you apply for a job you're not qualified for, one you're not really interested in and in a company you don't particularly value you're nowhere near as nervous at the actual interview. So, there's a chance it actually went well!

I spent the rest of the day hunched over the keyboard, tapping away like a maniac hoping to finish the test translation asap so that I can wow them with my efficiency and elaborate rhyming. My neck is stiff, my back aches, I haven't had time to eat anything and I never want to see another poorly drawn, politically incorrect cartoon again. I'm hoping the test went well and that I will hear more by the end of this week. 

I would love for them to hire me on permanent basis, though in that case this is what I'd be doing from now on. Staring at the computer screen, deprived of any social contact.

Though... perhaps doing that, while sat on the balcony overlooking my own pool in Spain, isn't such a bad scenario after all...?

Computer says no

Right. The new computer still hasn't turned up. Being cut off from the rest of the world sucks under any circumstances but especially now with what's going on in Gaza.

I'm still reeling from the phone call. I really, really wanted that job. Since then I've had to make the awkward trip to the Job Centre to confirm that yes, I'm still unemployed. That yes, I'm still every bit as unemployable as I was the last time around. That yes, I'm still looking and willing to take just about any job.

I was told that I'm now eligible for salary support scheme, where a substantial chunk of my salary would be remunerated by the government- designed to entice prospective employers to hire "long-term unemployed, disadvantaged or those otherwise challenged job-seekers". Great. Those are all the exact qualifications I grew up hoping to have one day. 

This weekend I'm participating in a training session at the umbrella organization for NGOs working in the field of development cooperation. As one of the trainers, no less. They happen to have 2 internships available. This time paid, but without a doubt in the most measly manner possible. Judging by the advert they are geared for those still in the university. So, at 33, with an advanced degree and work experience in the most challenging circumstances known to man (war, evacuation. occupation, revolution) I'm competing for internships with people still in school. 

The counselor at the Job Centre told me not to get depressed and demotivated. Which under the current circumstances is bloody hard, I'll tell you. This morning I had yet another look at the jobs out there and there was an internship available at the National Loo Society. No, I'm not even kidding. What ever discernible talent I might have is literally going down the drain. 

While, according to that lovely lady at the Job Centre, I should "believe in myself and in the fact that I have a whole lot to offer to the world" I've reached the point where I find that extremely, increasingly hard. So, what did I do? I sent a sarcasm-laden application to a translating agency, stating how "in spite of my vast work experience and impressive degrees I only really have one special talent- my English". And how, even "aware of their agency's crap reputation for doing everything in their powers to undermine professional translators expertise and deprive them of the most fundamental rights and reasonable pay I'm still interested in working for them, contributing to  their quality and status as the market leader". 

See-that's how much I'm past caring. Integrity- so last season, dear. And what do you know- I was asked for an interview. 

Frankly dear, I don't thanksgive a damn

I am grateful for not being American right now. It's not that I don't appreciate the feast of Thanksgiving- I can't imagine what the world would be like if the Indians and pilgrims hadn't gotten together and given the world Village People. It's just that even with the turkey and red wine- induced tryptophan coma I'd really struggle to find things to be grateful for. It's like whole year's Shabbats rolled into one. With pie.

But I suppose I should give it a try. To sympatize with my American readers. Which I believe I have about 3.

I'm thankful for not having a boyfriend/fiancé/ husband/ lesbian lover. If I did, I wouldn't have all this pent-up frustration, anger and agony to write about.

I'm thankful for not having a job. If I did, I wouldn't have all this time on my hands to cultivate the aforementioned frustration, anger and agony. And to google fancy words such as cultivate.

I'm thankful for living alone. If I did, there's no way I could pull only eating things that come boxed and delivered to your door (with extra garlic) off as terribly attractive.

I am thankful for not having sex life. If I did (in addition to the point made above), I wouldn't  be safe from the once a month "will they won't they"- debate with my reproductive system. At least now I know the reason I'm not getting my period is because I'm a hormonally fucked up mess, and not because there's a chance I'm pregnant.

I'm thankful for living in a cold, dark country where, in order to survive, I get to wear endless layers of jumpers instead of bikinis. If I didn't, there'd be no way  to hide the fact that as a result of my comfort eating I probably wouldn't even fit in mine.  AND considering my recklessly relaxed relationship with sunscreen I'd probably have stage 3 melanoma by now.

So there. Happy faces all around!

!¤%#"*^&%/%¤#"!"

I was working on a computer. On a Powerpoint- presentation no less. But just in case I had a beer on stand-by. And then the phone call came.

No, it wasn't the good kind. Then again, neither was the beer. It was lukewarm and flat by then.

Keeping with the "shit people say just to make you feel better" - theme the HR person did a wonderful job providing some new material. "All the 4 candidates were outstanding". "I made an excellent second choice". And my favourite: "it was a tough choice". Unfortunately the job itself went for someone with "more substantial database-experience". But overall "I was a very strong contender and should definitely keep an eye on their jobs in the future".

(Now for those readers of sensitive disposition: bad words coming up. And I mean BAD.)

Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. Damn. Crap. Bugger. Arsehole.

Amoeba eating its way through your intestines. Fistula. A drugged-up Congolese child soldier. Puss. Cauliflower.

(OK, so I ran out of actual curse words but those are bad, aren't they?)

I really had my hopes up for this one. What the hell am I going to do now?

I should stay positive, right? So, how about this: in case the other person was so outstanding and qualified, there's a chance (s)he'll be offered another longer-term job soon and I'll be offered this one? Or even better: (s)he'll be hit be a car and dies an agonizing but quick death and I'll be offered the job? 

While the whole first runner-up is oh, so grand at the Miss Universe pageant (oh, come on! who doesn't get goose pumps during the momentous speech "should anything happen to the winner, thus preventing her from assuming her duties as the Miss Universe the first runner up will step in") in real life "an excellent second choice" just sounds an awful lot like "the first loser to miss out on the job". 

So, now what? What are the kind of jobs where I am by far the most qualified candidate? Hebrew phone sex for shoe fetishists? 

Shit people say vol.2

Throughout this job-hunt my cheerleading squad has kept rooting for me even when I myself have lost faith. And no-one has been more relentless with his support than my GBFF. He keeps reminding me how I need to find a job, if not for any other reason, but in order to keep us both in booze.

How's that for a charitable pursuit? Others adopt/ sponsor starving and underprivileged kids in Africa, I sponsor a 30-year-old gay man with promiscuous ways to rival those of Ron Jeremy and the liver the size of  Senegal.

Though I must say his honesty is refreshing.

I got talking with some of my friends the other day and discovered that all this time I've been wrong. It's not communication that is the cornerstone of any relationship- it's the dishonesty of that communication! Just think about it. We lie pursuing one, we lie in order to maintain one and God, do we lie when trying to end one. 

"You play accordeon? I LOVE accordeon!" 

"You know, I never have sex on the first date but for you..."

"Can I have your phone number so I can call you?"

Lies. And they just get more elaborate from then on.

"No, of course your bum doesn't look big in those trousers! (No, wait, that was my Glastonbury tent, wasn't it?)"

"Wow- I've never seen anything as big as that one!!!" (Right. I wonder if I still have those pictures of Steve...)

"Not tonight, love- I have a headache." (And will continue having one until you shave off that stupid Movember moustache and get it through your head that clitoris is not an urban legend.)

All lies. And just wait until we're trying to get rid of you.

"Look, it's not you, it's me". 

* We both know what this classic means. It's soooo totally, wholeheartedly, unquestionably, inevitably,  unequivocally you. And the thing is, even you know it.

"It's just that I just got out of a relationship and am not really ready for one". 

* Yeah right. If you were Angelina Jolie/ Brad Pitt, (s)he would.

"I am going through a really busy phase in my life right now and don't really have time for a full-blown relationship"

* Strangely, they still manage to have time for their 3-times-a-week accordeon lessons. And stamp collecting. And always keeping their Fantasy Football scores up-to-date.

"Look, I think I might be gay".

* My ultimate favourite. Though... there's a chance this only happens to me. And that it's not really a lie.

See? In our desperate attempts to "let them down gently"... is anybody actually feeling gently let-down? We all know the other person doesn't really mean any of those. Or have any of you actually ever walked home from a date when any of the excuses listed in section 3  have been employed, with a smile on their face, hopeful and still thinking: yeah, he's, like, totally going to call me? NO.

So... at the end of the day are we really doing anyone any favours by playing this game? Are anyone's feelings escaping unscathed because of all this? NO. 

But there's always the exception (apart from the French grammar in which case there are  about 539 of them): a woman excusing herself to powder her nose. That's the one occasion when you really don't want to know what's really going to go on...

Shoulda coulda woulda

The interview on Friday kick-started a very angst-filled weekend. I've been alternating between dreams where in every other one I am doing the job (and doing it well!) and in the others I get that awkward phone call... The weekend wasn't made any easier by Manchester United defeat to Norwich City either.

I've been (awake and in my dreams)  going over the questionnaire and the pre-interview-evaluation form I had to fill, schlepping down the endless swamp of shoulda-coulda-wouldas. The thing is, it took me 6 months to land this interview, so the pressure is unbearable. Even if the job itself is for only 3 months. After that they should have new funding that will allow for an extension but even so the successful candidate will have to re-apply and go through all this again.

The evaluation form had questions such as "where do you see yourself in one year?" and where do you see yourself in 5 years?". Now, if I actually were that organized and had a plan to follow I probably wouldn't be in this pickle to begin with. Where do I see myself in one year if things continue like this? Living with my parents. And in five (after having lived with my parents for the previous 4) ? Living in an asylum. 

For my next interview (should there ever be one) I will need to employ a wardrobe assistant to guarantee the excellence of my sartorial choices, Photoshop technician to make sure I look flawless at every angle (and airbrush away the anxiety-induced red patches and profuse sweating) and a PR expert to filter everything I intend to say as opposed to  what I should say. Oh my God- I'm Mel Gibson. 

The situation in Gaza didn't exactly improve the weekend either. I am trying to stay up-to-date and have an informed opinion. It just always seems to end up being the wrong one. (I AM Mel Gibson.)

I should find out about the job today. It's 11:22 am. Is it too early to start drinking?

Waiting and wailing

So, I had the interview. I think it went well.

My friends' support was wonderful. Everybody sent messages telling me to break a leg. In fact I was thinking of breaking two and then, in case I won't be chosen, suing them for discriminating against the disabled ( I have warned you- I am desperate).

I didn't wear yellow. I didn't tell them how little I really think about UN and its powers to really change the world. I kept my make-up subtle. I didn't chain myself to the table.

And in addition to the French pedicure I did perform another long-overdue beauty operation: I shaved. You know, in case I'd have to sleep with someone to get the job. Only kidding. I think. (I did mean it though: I am that desperate.)

                              

That would have gotten me 2 birds with one stone though. A couple of days ago I donated blood and again the questionnaire reminded me of the drought in my life. South Sudan's drought at least got the attention of George Clooney. Mine fails to raise attention in anyone (George, seriously. you have my number- call me). The questionnaire asked if I've had sex with anyone new in the past 3 months. The answer: I haven't had sex in 3 months. Full stop.

Yeah, the situation with The Man hasn't developed. So, now I'll just wait by my phone. Wait to hear from the job, wait to hear about the results of the location-scouting.

Hey, there's an idea: how about I just become a professional waiter!

Stop the press

Only yesterday I was moaning about my general uselessness and lamenting how, the longer this unemployment continues, more difficult it gets to stay motivated and confident. It's scary how quickly you starts doubting yourself, wondering if you really have any skills.

And today... I think I saw a pig fly. And I could swear I read in the papers about Hell freezing over. Yes, these drastic evolutionary and climate changes can only mean one thing: the impossible has happened- I HAVE A JOB INTERVIEW!

I'm thrilled. It's only a 3-months contract but the ad did state a possibility for an extension. It's at a UN- agency specialized in what I've been trying to specialize in. I want this job sooooo bad!

But it only took about 2 minutes after the post-phone call-euphoria before the doubts started to cloud my bliss. How assistant-level position is this? Will I be considered too qualified? Too lacking in any actual work-experience? Too keen? Not enthusiastic enough? Will I actually remember any of the things I told in my cover letter I was experienced in? 

So, I'm spending the day by obsessing over what to wear (what if I inadvertedly outsmart the person interviewing me? What if he hates yellow?) and revising the Alien's Act. It's too late to try and get my hair done so instead of dazzling them with my freshly done highlights I'll have to impress them with "my commitment to human rights and core principles of international conventions along with determination to exercise professionalism and humane approach in everything I do".

And my secret weapon? A (long-overdue) French pedicure. I might not be the most suitable candidate for the job but I sure as hell will be the one with the prettiest toes!

Job hunt continues vol. 90

This job hunt is a joke. Almost 90 applications sent out so far. Or...am I imagining all that?

I even applied for a job as an assistant in a law firm. Now I think I'm genuinely toying with the idea of applying for a flight attendant course. Why else did I get all these degrees and qualifications if not to serve coffee or tea and be sexually harrassed in 11 languages by drunken idiots to fat to fit in their seats? And it's a budget airline which means no considerable perks such as weekly shopping sprees in New York or daiquiris on a beach in Dubai.

Today, at the Job Centre (seriously, can anyone think of a more depressing way to start a sentence?) I saw one of the most popular actors in the country registering asn an unemployed. What chance do the rest of us have then?

I know beggars can't be choosers but even still I've decided to ignore a post I saw for a secretary at the office of the medical faculty. The post-mortem department to be precise. These days my dreams are frighteningly vivid already- featuring international rescue operations and family reunions. I really don't need any new material for my Technicolour nightmares...

I've also decided not to get my hopes up about any of the projects The Director has been bragging about. Turned out he has continued his adorable and oh, so professional way of calling people at 3am, drunk, and slagging them off. He's fired everyone else from the film crew at least twice. No contracts on the splitting the proceeds for the DVD we made on that rock band have ever been seen.

Overqualified, inexperienced and unemployed. What a winning combination...

Plastic is fantastic

Oh. dear. So Britain has BBC and the rest of the world have the Catholic church... Well, I suppose Pippa Middleton must be enjoying Jimmy Saville taking over as the most talked-about arse in the English-speaking world...

I don't get it. I. Just. Don't. Get. It. How can there be so many sick pervs out there harbouring sexual feelings for kids? What is wrong with this world?!

Plenty. Clearly.

Now that I don't have laptop and Internet to keep me entertained I depend on obsessive compulsive solitaire playing (current success rate: 3.37%) and TV's freak shows that, while sickening, do have a way of making me feel a lot better about myself.

A while back I saw a documentary about Real Dolls. Those are life-like plastic dolls socially challenged saddos still living with their Mum are buying as their girlfriends. Apparently there's a waitinglist almost as longs as the one for Hermés Birkins. Why? Because they lack the social skills/ maturity/ desire to actually associate with real people and real people's needs they'd be expected to take into consideration in a proper relationship?

But now I've seen a documentary about women quieuing up to buy life-like replicas of babies. They can cost thousands. I saw one woman board a plane to US to bring hers home- as if she was adopting an actual child.

God. Even with all the issues, phobias , mothers and the occasional dysfunction... I'd still rather go for a Real Man. 

Not so manic Monday

Another Monday. And another week of dead end-jobs to apply for...

I never thought I'd hear myself say this but man, life without computers sucks. But having only that sad, black screen to stare at has  forced me to leave my place and rejoin the world.

I had a little pow wow with my GBFFs about the size of my future engagement ring. The verdict was unanimous: it'd better be massive. That way next time we break up I can inflict some serious pain as I start smacking him around. And just imagine the money I'll make when selling it on eBay, you know, next time we break up...

I also expanded my culinary horizons and tried to fall in love with Korean cuisine. Suffice to say, me and kimchi are not meant to be. Not now, not ever.

I also went to see football. And ended up hanging out with a lush Englishman. Who turned out to be 24. He didn't even get my brother's sarcasm-laden Mrs. Robinson references. So he was also uncultured. And 24... Jesus. I'm old enough to be his mum! Well, provided we lived in Yemen, anyway...

And speaking of mums... I've just had a Facebook friend request from The Man's mum.

Ctrl+Alt+Del

For a while now my laptop's been acting out. I've been acutely aware of its approaching death but couldn't bring myself to part with it, both because of the cashflow issues but also because it's The Man's old work laptop which means that every single time I log on, I see his name.

Now, however, the screen has started flickering and has acquired a strange shade. Initially I convinced myself it might a result of me looking at the world through rose-tinted spectacles, but turned out that my IT- expertize failed me. The screen really was pink. Until this morning it was black. And won't do shit. Talk about a spectacle...

So, I'm afraid it's going to be radio silence for a while now until I get this situation sorted out. Somehow...

Cliffhanger

I had stopped talking out loud to photos of The Man (only marginally above the crazy cat ladies in the disturbed behaviour scale, trust me), stashed the photos away and even binned his old rugby jersey I used to sleep in. 

And then came the flowers and the phone call and he had roped his way back in again. 

Yes, the phone call. I know leaving you with that kind of a cliffhanger wasn't the most gracious thing to do, but I needed a bit of time to process what was said (and most importantly: what wasn't).

He apologizes for not getting in touch earlier. But it had taken all this time to realize how much he wants me in his life. He misses me terribly. Hates not knowing where I am, if I'm ok and if I need help. He hates not having me in his life and wants to know if we could still be an item. He thinks we are so good together that we should "make a go of it". (make a go of WHAT, exactly?)

Buoyed by my friends' supportive pep talk about how I deserve to be treated better I told him we've been through all this so many times and I have heard him say all those things so many times- only for nothing to come out of it. And I told him I don't need all this mess, all this drama (yes, I said that. Me! Voluntarily announcing a retirement from drama!). 

He hadn't expected me to pick up the phone and had planned a speech he'd deliver in my voice mail. I haven't seen anyone struggle so much trying to put together a coherent sentence since Colin Firth in King's speech. He said he wasn't good with words and I said I couldn't think of a better moment to get it right. I said I didn't want to assume, connect the dots, analyze or read between the lines. And that I definitely wanted to make sure I wasn't reading too much into anything- that what ever he wanted, he should say it out loud in way that was coherent and unequivocal (Ahh. I do wish Dr. Phil wasn't the only person on the planet to use that word. I love it.).

He struggled so hard and I was so nervous that I repeatedly missed parts like "so, where do you want to get married then?". 

Yes. That's what he meant by "making a go of it". 

We joked. We laughed. I cried. He said he's not going to propose over the phone as he knows he needs to do it properly, in a "public place where I in turn can humiliate him by turning down his proposal". This is his Grand Gesture- calling me just to tell me he's not going to propose?!

But apparently it's very much like real estate- it's all about location, location, location. So I suggested Times Square on New Year's eve. All those millions  and millions of people and their iPhones should guarantee maximum exposure to that- hell, the proposal would be on Youtube before he'd even manage to finish the sentence! 

I told him to get off the phone as he clearly has a seriously grand gesture to plan.

So, stay tuned. I'm not sure I'll settle for anything less than a private Caribbean island  rented just for us, New York Philharmonics playing Händel in the background, dolphins jumping out of the sea in moonlight in heart-shaped formations... and a ring sparkly enough to impress Steve Wonder.

And now...what?

So. The Man remembered the anniversary.

The card with the flowers said: "Happy anniversary. Always there in my heart and mind. Love, The Man xxx"

(well, obviously the card itself didn't read The Man. I mean, he's old, but hopefully not too senile to remember his own name).

And once again I find myself wondering... now what? I suppose a polite thank you note is in order (being aggravated to a point of homicide is still no excuse to forget one's manners. And if we lose our sense of etiquette, that glorious beacon of civilization- what are we left with? Essex?). Not on monogrammed, lavender-scented stationery, mind you, but a short, to-the-point e-mail. I don't understand what his goal is. We have seen and done all this so many times it's starting to look like a Britney Spears choreography. 

Luckily I had my Judge Judys on stand-by.

"This is all just a game in which he's just made his latest move to mentally fuck you up", a friend pointed out in her always appreciated caustic manner. So...how was I to time mine? 

Should I send the e-mail straight away with my emotions still raw and raging inside me (and risk letting all that show- possibly even begging for a second third fourth chance)? Or should I hang on to my cool, give it some time  as I calculate the next move and let him dangle for a while? But then another friend pointed out how the last option wouldn't be terribly lady-like behaviour. 

And as I couldn't possibly let my inner Hyacinth Bucket down I did send him that e-mail. Short, just like his long-term memory. Void of any emotions, just like his heart. "Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful."

And as soon as I hit the send- button... my phone rang. I recognized the foreign country code. It was The Man. "Don't answer it!" the first friend said. And I did contemplate doing just that- for whole 3 seconds. And then I (raw, emotional and still raging) picked up the phone.

When words (constantly) fail you, say it with flowers

Yeah... as I was reeling from my 3 new rejection e-mails and still hurting with the notion of would-have-been-anniversary I started doing some calculations on how exactly I am going to survive on the dole. The numbers were every bit as bleak as they were the last time I tried to understand them. And just as I thought the day couldn't get any worse... there was a knock on the door. And a flower delivery guy (dejá vu, anyone?)

And just as I thought I couldn't sink any lower... I had reached a totally new level. Seriously, I should be half-way through China by now.

7 the lucky number

During Pesach seder it's customarily asked: what makes this day different from all the others? Nothing, I'll tell you. NOTHING. Except that today would have been our 7-year-anniversary. 

I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if he cares. And then I wonder why I care if he does. The mere mention of his name still makes me break down. That's how over him I am.

Other than that this days has been just like all the others. Miserable and pointless. Earlier this year I attended a 2-week course for unemployed academically trained individuals- aiming to improve their chances at finding a job. We were repeatedly told to only apply for jobs that we're genuinely interested in and qualified for as the prospective employer can tell if we're really serious. That's what I've been doing. And to no avail.

We were also told to be proactive- to get in touch with the people in charge of the recruitment process to see how we did and what are the things we could focus on and improve to guarantee better chance in the future. And that's what I've been doing. Not that it has been any more fruitful either.

I asked the government agency.I applied for their most junior position (as I already knew it's a tough agency to break into from outside- remember how in my last interview I was actually told how "I should be grateful I'd made the interview at all; seeing how I came from outside the house?") and din't make the interview because they only decided to interview people who already had experience from the agency. HOW THE FUCK DOES ONE GET THAT? Oh, right: those bloody unpaid internships...

I also finally got a reply from the NGO I was dying to work for. There wasn't anything I could have done to improve my chances, quite the opposite apparently. I was considered too qualified for an assistant-level job. But they look forward to hearing from me when they're recruiting people for specialist level jobs. Which I've yet to see them do.

I was also notified I didn't make the next round of the EU high level internship- recruitment process either. "162 applicants, all exceptionally qualified" (oh wait, where have I heard all this before... oh, right: in every single e-mail I get these days!).

What a day. What a %#"*%&¤#!n day. Again.

I've gone from downshifting to downgrading to downright down and out. 

No tricks, no treats

In a bid to get that much-needed break from my own life I spent a wineless weekend at my sister's- this time with the one with the kids. Very sobering experience on so many accounts. We celebrated my nephew's belated birthday...and Halloween.

I was instructed to "dress up". Luckily even I was able to figure out this was different kind of dressing up that the one I did with The Man. Though those outfits might have made me very popular with the trick or treating.  Although the Dads' idea of the treats they'd like to give me in exchange of my tricks might have been somewhat x-rated...

Anyway... My ideas of Bishar the Beduin, Sharona the Jewish Settlerwoman and Tony the English Tourist were immediately shot down as inappropriate for children too. So I settled for Spanish fortuneteller/ Frida Kahlo. Which did't turn out to be much more popular. One of  my sisters assumed I'd just come as  myself whereas the other one had me down as a Spanish hooker (I supposed that's only called for- seeing how I did describe her to have the charm and social skills of a serial-killing sociopath...)

That's not the only thing I got wrong. My brother came dressed as a vampire and asked for my help with his make up. Apparently vampire-look is one thing, dead pharao freelancing as a glam rock-punker quite another.

It was nice though. A lot like Christmas when we all get together, eat too much and let t he board games get the best of our competitive streaks. As we were battling it out on the  Monopoly board I realized: I always play with the shoe, end up bankrupt, with no property and unable to pay the exorbitant rents for lodging on other players' lots who managed to make better choices  during their rounds. 

Perhaps it's not me. Perhaps that's just my lot in life...?

Out of luck, out of hope

My life at the moment is bit of a battle. And black belt from Fendi just isn't enough...

I didn't get an interview with the NGO. Once again the candidates were all highly qualified and competition was fierce. 

None of the government agency jobs seem to be going anywhere either. They're currently looking to hire loads of people but haven't secured an interview with them either- even though I've sought to gain relevant experience through all these unpaid internships. Everyone of the people they're having for interviews (even for the starter positions) already have work experience within the agency.

This government agency was my plan C. Where the hell am I going to concoct a career plan D?

The 2-day course I attended hoping to impress the NGO people was futile. I felt so pointless next to all of the other people; with their degrees and titles and all that jazz.I honestly don't know what more to do. 

Though apparently I still haven't done enough. There's so much I should learn about, so many issues to familiarize myself with. I should follow the situation in Middle East, navigate the windy waters of source criticism, stay up-to-date on the situation in North Africa and follow reports from UNHCR, Freedom House, Amnesty and HRW. I should learn about the queer theory and form an opinion on boycotting Israel. I should memorize the Alien's Act and analyze the immigration debate. I should be informed about the US presidential election and know what implications the result has for the situation...well, everywhere. I should utilize every employment opportunity in my own country while keeping an eye on jobs overseas.

I'm so tired of everything being such a struggle. Always having to do more to outdo others, the constant pressure to be in the right place at the right time, finding and talking to the right people...

And it's the same bloody thing with love!

I'm in a very dark place right now. A break from blogging might be in order( right now this blog is just about as entertaining as being summoned to a Kabul stadium to watch yet another rape victim being flogged for adultery) Along with break from my own life. I'm so fed up with feeling like a failure- performing well, yet failing to seal the deal.

Shake that moneymaker

A friend of mine has come up with a novel use for her credit card. She's currently travelling around the world and in Madrid learnt to use the credit card in order to break into houses.

I on the other hand stick to the old-fashioned way. Though not much longer. My debt crisis is starting to resemble that of the Southern Europe. Budget management, self-restrain... it's all Greek to me.

In a bid to turn my co-dependent relationship (are there any other kinds?) with eBay into a more constructive one I listed some of The Man's presents. A Tiffany & co scarf. And another by Pucci. And yet another by Louis Vuitton.

I can't bring myself to wear them anyway- they remind me of him far too much. And after having had hold of my heart and life for so long he really doesn't need to have a hold of my neck.

I know I occasionally get on the soap box and boldly make declarations about how I want a job that has a meaning but damn, do I want one that makes money too!

Catch of the day

My expecting friend is adamant I need to start dating. Well, now that he, too, won't have time for me I guess I do need to find something to do with my time. Just not sure dating is the answer. I could always learn mahjong. Or master French.

I wouldn't even know where to meet men. Now that my straight friends' lives are increasingly slipping further and further away from mine, I find myself gravitating back to the gay scene. Which is not the most ideal place for finding a date. My GBFFs' only advice for me at this particular, fragile time in my life is "Don't go lesbian- that's so passé". 

And in all honesty I did toy with the idea. For about 5 minutes. Until I realized there's no way I could put up with the hormonal horrors of another female in my life. 

And the thing is, I'm not in the kind of place in my life where I could even imagine dating someone. I don't feel I have much to offer. I really don't feel like I'm much of a catch. I wouldn't date a man my age. Especially one without a job. Plus... I'm 33 and have never been married. At what point does it stop being attractive and becomes alarming? 

And with my emotional turmoil... I would rather get on the next plane to Syria and get involved with the insurgents than get involved with someone like me. I suppose I could always make it official and become a nun. Only that would involve converting to Catholicism. And that's not going to happen...